


I Came Back Howling

by Agent25



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Animal Transformation, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Minor Character Death, Slow Burn, Wolf Pack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-05-29 05:51:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15066554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent25/pseuds/Agent25
Summary: "An Alpha without a mate, without a pup to carry on his bloodline. What kind of Alpha is that? Not one that can protect his pack."Steve Rogers has lost the love of his life and their newborn son in one fell swoop. Years haven't lessen the blow of such monumental and soul crushing losses, but he must go on in order to keep his pack strong. What he needs is a mate.Sharon Carter is a young and virile wolf and at the perfect age for mating. Power hungry suitors lurk at every corner ready to pounce. They would have never chosen one another, but what fate brings together cannot be undone by mere mortals.





	1. The Glint of Light on Broken Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "An Alpha without a mate, without a pup to carry on his bloodline. What kind of Alpha is that? Not one that can protect his pack." 
> 
> Steve Rogers has lost the love of his life and their newborn son in one fell swoop. Years haven't lessen the blow of such monumental and soul crushing losses, but he must go on in order to keep his pack strong. What he needs is a mate. 
> 
> Sharon Carter is a young and virile wolf and at the perfect age for mating. Power hungry suitors lurk at every corner ready to pounce. They would have never chosen one another, but what fate brings together cannot be undone by mere mortals.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me, thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

Sharon is going to be sick.

She feels it deep in her gut, the tightening sensation of sadness and despair coiling together with every word the minister speaks until she is light headed and struggling to breathe. She sways in place, her wool dress scratching incessantly at her skin like the thousand, tiny pinpricks of a knife’s blade. The sheer nude tights stretch tautly across the expanse of her lanky legs, her jacket is uncomfortably snug across her shoulders, constricting her and the agony she has raging within her.

Peggy is dead.

Sharon’s breath catches in her throat as she forcibly bites down bile. That’s how distressing even the mere thought of her cousin’s death affects her. Just the acknowledgement is enough to overwhelm her, threatening to send her asunder into unimaginable grief.

Her eyes are red, though she has no tears to cry. She had cried, days ago when the news had been solemnly delivered to her father, disrupting the peaceful day within their Charleston home. The tears had come when her father and mother had sat her down and gently broke the news. The 17 year old had bolted from the mahogany study, racing up to her room and locking herself inside the pale yellow bedroom, throwing herself onto the bed as she sobbed and screamed into her pillow until her tears were spent and her throat raw.

Peggy had been more than a cousin, more than family; she had been Sharon’s older sister, mentor and favorite person all in one.

It was Peggy who had taught her to unleash her wolf, to let it run free without letting it control her. Peggy was the one who had been with her during her first full moon, coaxing her through her first transformation. Peggy had led her through the woods, taught her to smell like a wolf, fight like a wolf, hunt like a wolf.

God, Peggy had been such a beautiful wolf. Silky, chestnut fur covering a poised predator’s body. Peggy had been everything Sharon wasn’t, while Sharon was tripping over her paws and lumbering into trees like an overeager puppy after rolling through thick underbrush filled with burs, Peggy had been agile and precise, both deadly and divine.

“We have gathered in this hour, not only to grieve the death of Margaret, but to give thanks to God for her life among us and for her eternal life now with God.” the minister continues, his deep voice carrying across the somber mourners, bounded together in a sea of melancholy black funeral wear.

Even the sky above them in this open field is ominous with billowing, gray clouds rolling in from the east. Sharon can smell the moisture in the air, hanging thickly off the leaves in the trees above that are rustling in the crisp breeze. It lightly blows through her thick hair as it tumbles down her shoulders. Her only adornment is a plain black headband that’s just a smidge too rigid as it squeezes against her temple like a ticking time bomb.

“We have gathered, not only to mourn over how different our lives will be without her, but to give thanks to God for how full life was when she was in our midst.”

Sharon’s eyes wander across the saddened faces of those in attendance. It is a large crowd of people who had loved Peggy; loved her quick wit, her unabashed tongue that could tear men down to size with just a few lashes, her ferocious nature that hid the unending compassion and kindness that she gave freely to those in need of it.

But yet…even as numerous as the crowd is, she can’t help but notice how glaringly obvious who isn’t among those grieving the loss of such a tragically short and brilliant life.

Peggy’s mother. Her stern yet adoring father. Her beloved older brother, Michael.

None of Peggy’s pack from England had traveled across the ocean to come and bury their pack member as the law decrees.

It guts Sharon to know why they have stayed away. Why they wouldn’t come and say goodbye one final time.

_Dishonor._

_Disgrace._

_Disownment._

_Exile._

For Peggy had done the one thing a woman of mating age was forbidden to do: she had married without the consent of her Alpha.

Without thinking of it, Sharon’s amber eyes dart towards a pair of broad shoulders hunched with sorrow, golden head bowed beneath his daunting pain.

Steve Rogers.

Alpha to the Rogers Pack of the North…and Peggy’s mate.

Sharon had only been 13 when Peggy, vibrantly 21 and fresh from her courses at Oxford, had come to spend the summer months among her American brethren within the Carter Pack in the South. She had wanted nothing more than to spend her days lazing beneath the hot, southerly sun, letting it kiss her skin as she idled with a mystery novel and a good cup of tea.

But then she had met Steve.

A devastatingly handsome young man, as brash and headstrong as Peggy, and recently come into his own as the Alpha of his pack with the passing of his father. The two had met at a ball Sharon’s father had held. Eyes had locked across the glittering ballroom, interests instantly piqued, desire intensified beyond reason.

A missing puzzle piece, clicking into place, completing the entire scene. 

And just like that, they had fallen madly in love. They would have no one else, only each other.

They had stolen away in the cover of a moonless night, exchanging heartfelt promises to one another as an officiant married them, sealing their sacred vows with rings and the bond mark, bitten into willing flesh.

Nothing was more revered among wolves than the mark of a bonded pair, mated together for life.

Nothing could separate them, only death.

Only death.

Steve’s eyes are just as bloodshot as Sharon’s. They stand out in stark comparison to the sickly paleness of his hollowed face and the purple shadows surrounding his haunted eyes. For such a large man he seems incredibly small as he stands bolstered by his pack, those that had recognized Peggy as his mate.

Sharon faintly remembers the uproar that had erupted across the territories after news of Steve and Peggy’s elopement had broken, spreading far and wide. To marry without the consent of a woman’s Alpha and without the approval of the High Council was considered an act as heinous as treason.

Had the High Council had their way, Steve Rogers would have been stripped from his pack as Alpha, banished and forced to watch as his home and family were swallowed whole by hungry wolves lurking in the wings, waiting to seize the land and power the Rogers Pack yielded.

Yet, by the grace of the moon he had kept his position as Alpha and Peggy remained at his side as his mate.

That was the last day any member of Peggy’s pack had spoken to her. From then on, she was dead to them. Nothing more than a long ago memory, bittersweet and beautiful in its fleeting haziness. And now they wouldn’t even come to see her one last time before she was laid to rest in the cold earth.

“And not only do we mourn the loss of a soul as radiant as Margaret,” the minister cuts in, knocking the teenager out of her labyrinthine thoughts. “But we also must mourn the passing of her newborn son, Grant Allen Rogers.”

Sharon’s heart breaks within her chest, jagged pieces scraping along her ribcage, cutting at her throat, ripping her apart from the inside.

Steve’s shoulders drop, hands curling into fists clenched so tightly that his nails must have pierced through the skin. She can smell the iron of fresh blood even from her spot between her parents, her mother’s fingers digging into her shoulders as she holds on tightly to her only daughter, as if afraid that in the blink of an eye she’ll disappear. Become as far away and as unreachable as Peggy.

She remembers her parents’ hushed whispers when the news came to them of Peggy’s death. A childbirth gone horrifically wrong, agonizing pain, and _so much blood._ A child born, lungs that could not support his frail body, passing within an hour of entering this world, his mother’s body already cold and limp.

“Grant has only known the love of his mother, father, and family in the safety of his mother’s womb and the love of Christ in heaven. His knowledge of love and provision are so pure.” The minister pauses as his eyes move to stare down at the little casket situated so innocently in a little grave, right next to his mother.

“Times like these can either become a wedge between us as disappointment turns to bitterness or times like this can become a bridge over which we cross, arm in arm, bringing us closer together, looking for help in the troubled times and finding it in one another; finding God moving through others.”

A low whine carries across the crowd. The broken noise assaults Sharon’s senses as a chill runs up her spine, freezing her to the bone. The mourners shift uncomfortably as eyes furtively turn towards Rogers. The dark skinned man next to him reaches out, grasping his shoulder as he leans in, whispering into the Alpha’s ear. Rogers only shakes his head, eyes staring forward into the distance. Sharon cannot begin to guess what he sees.

“Friends, do not despair for the loss of Margaret and Grant. Rejoice in the peace they have found on the shores of their Father’s love. For in God’s embrace they shall live, surrounded by his eternal love. Amen.”

Murmurs breakout through the crowd gathered together. It begins with a trickle, those standing on the peripheries stepping away and then like a ripple effect the throng of people lessen. Sharon remains stock still, feet refusing to move as the crowd around her disperses.

She doesn’t know how she can walk away when Peggy’s _right there_ , in the ground, about to be covered with dirt and left alone in the all-consuming darkness. How can they just leave her there?

She startles when wetness plops onto her cheek, a single drop of rain running down her face. Blinking owlishly she looks up to the drab sky. The heavens open and the rain comes down. First as a sprinkle, then a shower.

“Sharon,” her father speaks softly, “Time to go.”

An umbrella opens above her, shielding her from the downpour commencing around them. She grasps the handle of it, ready to turn and follow her parents when she stops, noticing the lone figure standing before the graves.

Steve Rogers looks broken beyond repair.

He is drenched, the rain falling down upon him heavily. His shoulders are shaking, sobs wracking through his powerful body as he folds into himself. And though his back is to her, she knows that if she could catch a glimpse of his face, tears and rain would be running together as they run down his cheeks.

It is a heartbreaking sight.

An Alpha without a mate, without a pup to carry on his bloodline. An Alpha so utterly alone in the world.

“Sharon,” her father says, a firmness settling into his tone. He will not ask again. Sharon pivots, her flats squishing into the grass and soil beneath her feet as she trails behind her parents. They walk arm and arm, buoyed together. She follows the well-trodden path that winds through the forest, sidestepping puddles the entire way before the tree line breaks ahead. As they emerge from out of the woods, the Rogers Estate rises before them. The farmhouse has stood for nearly 200 years, a home to generations of Rogers.

The home Peggy and Steve were meant to raise their pups in.

The windows are shuttered, the curtains drawn, and only shadows remain. The house is empty and dark, not a sign of life visible within. It stands as a mausoleum; cold and lonely with only ghosts for company.  

Sharon hurries through the grass, her hand reaching for the door handle of the backseat of her parents’ rental SUV. Just as her fingers curl around it a mighty howl rips across the land, echoing through the forests and fields and the Adirondack Mountains in the distance.

It’s unlike any howl Sharon has ever heard before. Heartache, desperation, and madness surging together to create an unimaginably tortured sound that has the wolf inside of her cowering with bent ears and tail between its legs as it whimpers. The hair on the back of her neck stands up on end and against her will a shiver wracks through her spindly body, hollowing out her bones in the process.

She throws open the car door, slipping inside against the leather seats before slamming it shut. The howl has died out, but her heart is still rattling in her chest, her breath heavy in her throat as the rain splatters against the windows.

The car ignites and her father wastes no time in whirling the vehicle down the gravel road that takes them away from the shadowy farmhouse. As the car pulls farther and farther away, Sharon can’t help but look back, watching as the house grows smaller and smaller behind them until the forest engulfs it entirely.

What she doesn't know is that it will be years until she sees it again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This little plot bunny entered my head and I couldn't let it go without trying to put pen to paper. And anyway, when can one have too many Staron fics? Never, says I! I imagine this will add a challenging element to working on both this and my Fourth of July series, but I promise to work hard on them both! Hopefully this one won't be quite as long. Also, the slow burn for this won't be nearly as glacial as FoJ. Hallelujah! Which makes my soul sing because I have been itching to write actual coupley, in love Staron. They're so beautiful together. *Insert heart eyes* Sorry, I digress. 
> 
> I'd love to hear your guys' feedback for this new little tale of mine. You guys are always amazing at sharing and spreading the love, which makes writing so worth it! 
> 
> Also, this story is not A/B/O, so no knotting or heats or anything like that. It's just about people who have the ability to transform into wolves and live in a pack-like society. More world building is to come in future chapters. 
> 
> Next planned update: 07/09
> 
> Pic time! 
> 
> Teenage Sharon:  
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/157032205@N05/41223009100/in/dateposted-public/)
> 
> Sharon's funeral attire:  
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/157032205@N05/42314311904/in/dateposted-public/)
> 
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/157032205@N05/42314311984/in/dateposted-public/)   
> 
> 
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/157032205@N05/42314311784/in/dateposted-public/)   
> 


	2. It Is the Nature of the Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s not good.” he stonily confides as he leans back into the giving couch. “Rumlow remains the Alpha with the strongest claim for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”
> 
> Harrison’s face shutters with desperation as he beseeches his old friend. “There has to be someone else.”
> 
> “Oh, there are.” Fury details with a disdainful frown. “From second rate packs that have nothing to offer you in regards to land, money, or alliances. It’d be insulting for you to consider such claims on your daughter’s behalf, let alone accept one. The Council will never approve, not with a wolf of Sharon’s pedigree.”

Charleston is damn hot.

From the moment Nick Fury had stepped off the plane, a heady humidity had engulfed him; winding its way beneath the layers of his black leather trench coat. It was only May and already the heat was potent and all-consuming down here in the south. Venturing to his rental car had felt like wading through quick sand, sweat building up at the base of his neck and even annoyingly beneath his eye patch.

He had never been more thankful for AC in his entire life.

Damned stickiness aside, his drive through the charming southern city was easy enough as his SUV drove beyond the city limits and out into the vast countryside. That is how he found himself breezing down a deserted dirt road, buffered on each side by towering oak trees that have stood in place for centuries. Thick Spanish moss overhangs above the road, creating a whimsical canopy of refreshing shade. Shattered beams of sunlight break through the intertwined moss, filtering down to the road below as Fury drove through such patches of incandescent light, blinding in their brevity.

It felt like the road could go on forever.

But eventually the trees thin out the longer he drives and like zooming through a tunnel he comes out the other side into bright sunlight, nothing but blue sky above him. Rising up before him is the home to the largest wolf pack in the South.

The Carter Pack.

They’ve been in the United States since the time of the Civil War and are one of the most distinguished packs within all the territories of the United States. A pack of strong breeding and incomparable familial lines linking them back to the Carter Pack in the UK, one of the oldest packs in the world, in existence since the age of William the Conqueror.

On both sides of the lane children are playing, enjoying the spring day. Through his closed windows Fury can hear the high-pitched squeals of jubilant pups as they wrestle and play with reckless abandon, rolling across the lush green grass. Many stop and stare as the SUV sweeps by, curious eyes following Fury as he passes them. Some even take chase after him, running through the dusty cloud of dirt that has been picked up by his car wheels, their short, grubby hands waving at him in his rearview mirror.

He follows the gravel road as it curves up into a circular drive. He comes to a stop right at the front steps of the vast and sprawling Carter Estate. A historic plantation home with an elevated foundation, raising the house ten or so feet off the ground. Robust marble pillars support the mansion, standing like virtuous beacons, beaming in the sunshine. Grand stairs lead up to a full-width porch that wraps cozily around the manor. Several older pack members are seated in rocking chairs, enjoying the warm breeze coming in from the east.

Fury opens the car door and steps out into the heat, it hitting him like a wave, ready to knock the grizzled wolf off his feet. He stands outside for a moment, surveying his surroundings. With his enhanced hearing he can hear the din of many voices and the beating of many hearts within the plantation home. The manor has been a home to many wolves throughout its lustrous years. He’s sure the doorways could tell him secrets of all those that have walked through it. That the grooves of the wooden floors inside have their stories of heartache and triumph.

There’s a warmth to this house. Not the damned humidity, but a real sense of community and family forged here.

The Carter Pack is how a pack should be. Providing not only a sense of kinship among its pack members, but security and peace of mind. In this pack everyone is looked after and tended to in equal measure. A pack is like the roots of a mighty tree. They extend far and wide, intertwining and spreading out, growing stronger the farther they delve into the earth. But if the pack is not strong, the roots wither and die, killing the tree from the inside. Many a pack had fallen like rotten trees, never to rise again.

Fury’s one good eye lazily trails over the garden before him. He can distantly remember hearing that the Carter Estate is famed for its stunning gardens. This one is no exception. Set in a rustic parterre, boxwood winds itself together in pleasing formations, all sharply clipped like the edge of a razor. Vibrant pops of color are presented in flowerbeds overflowing with blue speckled hydrangeas, pink azaleas, and brilliantly orange hibiscus.

He catches movement out of the periphery of his eye and spies a lone figure crouched down in the midst of the eye catching garden, toiling away with their back to him as they gently tend to a bunch of newly planted magnolias. The figure – a woman as far as Fury can tell – is outfitted in baggy overalls with a floppy sunhat atop her head, protecting her both from the heat and light shining down upon her.

Suddenly the gardener freezes, as if feeling the weight of Fury’s gaze upon her. Raising her head, she risks a glance over her shoulder as the two lock gazes. Amber eyes asses Fury carefully, a knowing gleam in her dark irises.

It’s with a start that Fury realizes who he is looking at.

Sharon Carter.

The only child of Harrison Carter, Alpha of the Carter Pack. It’s been years since the last time Fury has seen her. She must have been 13 or 14. He can still remember it. She had just had a growth spurt at the time, gawky and ungainly as she tried to maneuver in her new body. Fury can fondly recall that she had all the gracefulness of a newborn giraffe. She had been all sharp elbows and knobby knees.

Nothing like the young woman before him. He can tell she has finally grown into her body, limbs no longer awkward but lithe and slender. The rounded cheeks of childhood have fallen away, leaving distinct features on an attractively inquisitive face. Her eyes flash as she watches him and in her gaze he can see a wisdom unpossessed by most 22 year old's.

She knows why he is here.

Fury exhales as the reason for his visit once again presses down on his shoulders. Sharon is newly graduated from Georgetown, and now returned home from DC.

And that is exactly the problem.

Their silent exchange is broken when the front door opens, knocking Fury out of his thoughts. His head turns as he sees Harrison Carter descending towards him.

“Nick,” Harrison greets with a cordial grin that only frays slightly at the edges. An almost unseen tension is thrumming through his body as he comes to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, hand reaching out to Fury.

“Harrison,” Fury gruffly replies, shaking the Alpha’s hand. He can feel the hand clench around his own as Harrison firmly pumps. They release one another and stand together, letting the moment wash over them.

Harrison Carter is a wiry man with hair thinning on the top and grey curling at his temples. He’s unassuming with a reserved demeanor, looking more like an English professor than the Alpha of a famed pack.

Fury’s eyes are quickly drawn to the shadow lurking right over Harrison’s shoulder. The Alpha sighs, following his gaze to where it rests on a young man, swathed in a sweater vest and hair polished with a copious amount of hair gel.

“Phil,” Harrison begins only to be immediately cut off.

“It’s _Philip,_ Uncle.” There’s a tilt to the boy’s accent, instantly identifying him as British.

Harrison’s eyes slip shut as he tries again, still not looking at back at the boy. “Of course. Philip, give us a minute, will you? Take a walk.”

The young man balks. “But, Uncle –“

“Now.” Harrison’s voice doesn’t falter, but just enough steel is planted into his tone, reminding the boy of who he is dealing with. It’s a reminder to Fury as well. He may not look imposing, but Harrison Carter has lived as the Alpha of the Carter Pack for nearly twenty years and demands respect as such.

The boy huffs but does concede to his new Alpha, kicking up dirt as he wanders away. Both men watch him go before turning to each other, a wry grin stretching across Harrison’s weary face.

“Kids these days.” he offers up with a shrug of his shoulders. “No respect.”

Fury grunts his acquiesce. “That George Carter’s boy?”

Harrison nods. “Arrived only last week from across the pond. George felt it best he come and live among us. With Michael learning the ways of being an Alpha by his father, it was deemed best that Philip do the same here. Especially now that…”

Harrison’s voice trails off as his lips tightened. Fury nods in understanding to everything Harrison doesn’t say.

Women – such as Sharon Carter – could not inherit their father’s pack.

One day, Philip would be the Carter Pack’s Alpha.

Once again, their problem presented itself to them.

A pinch look remained in Harrison’s eyes as he gestured to the stairs. “Come inside. We can talk in my study.”

Fury glances over his shoulder but Sharon is no longer in the garden. She must have slipped away while they were conversing, silent as a ghost.

The two men walk side by side up the stairs and into the large manor. A grand foyer greets them with a grandiose staircase winding upstairs. Fury can hear joyous laughter and friendly voices call out as he and Harrison stroll through the stately home. As they walk, the sumptuous scent of tender meat wafts through the air, tickling Fury’s nose as he breathes it in.

Harrison grins purposefully. “Amanda’s hard at work in the kitchen, making pot roast with her famous mushroom grits. The creamiest grits this side of the Mississippi. You’ll have to stay for dinner.”

They come to a stop at a closed doorway. Harrison quickly unlocks it and swings the door open, allowing Fury to walk through first. He steps into a spacious study. It has wall-to-wall dark stained mahogany with study shelves built in, holding thick tomes that no doubt have been in the Carter family for generations. A rustic leather couch is laid out, two matching leather chairs across from it with a coffee table in between. At the head of the room is a majestic fireplace carved out of inky granite.

Fury came to a stop in the center of the room, hands on his hips as the sweet coolness of the AC washed over him like a soothing balm. His head lulled back slightly as he listened to the faint whirling of the fan spinning above them.

“Feel up for a drink?” Harrison inquires, already walking towards a small side table that holds several decanters of golden liquid.

Fury chuckles lowly in response. “I’m always up for a drink.”  

“Good man.” Harrison toasts, pouring both of them a glass of rich whiskey. He hands it off to Fury, clinking their glasses together as both men drink in silence. The alcohol goes down smooth, warming Fury’s belly. A quietness settles between the pair of men as they seat themselves; Fury on the couch and Harrison in an accompanying chair.

Harrison sets the glass down, still mostly full. He places his hands on the armrests of the sturdy chair, a grim expression crossing his lined face as he observes Fury.

“What news do you have, _Director Fury?”_

Ah, yes. Just another reminder that this in fact a business call, rather than a friendly drink between old friends.

Fury’s face turns solemn as he places his drink down, the glass chinking quietly as it rests on the table between them.

As Director of the High Council he shouldn’t even be here discussing what it is they are about to discuss. It goes far against code and law.

But Nick Fury has always played by his own rules, consequences be damned.

“It’s not good.” he stonily confides as he leans back into the giving couch. “Rumlow remains the Alpha with the strongest claim for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

Harrison’s face shutters with desperation as he beseeches his old friend. “There has to be someone else.”

“Oh, there are.” Fury details with a disdainful frown. “From second rate packs that have nothing to offer you in regards to land, money, or alliances. It’d be insulting for you to consider such claims on your daughter’s behalf, let alone accept one. The Council will never approve, not with a wolf of Sharon’s pedigree.”

Harrison’s face is thunderous as he rages, “I’d take a thousand such men as my son-in-law before ever allowing a wolf like Rumlow to so much as look at Sharon, let alone mate her.”

The silence between the two is tense and drawn out.

Fury gives in first with a reasonable rebuttal. “Rumlow is a strong Alpha.”

He’s cut off by Harrison’s bitter snort. The Carter Alpha jumps up from his seat, the liveliest Fury’s ever seen him.

“He’s a brute!” Harrison can’t help but yell, cheeks going ruddy with anger as he rants. “He has nothing in his heart other than bloodlust for power and territory that doesn’t belong to him. You know as well as I do that he’ll only use Sharon as a bitch to give him pups, and when she’s not doing that he’ll spend his time beating her. He has no respect for the bond between mates.”

The Alpha shook his head in disgust as he spits out, “He’s hardly a man let alone a wolf.”

Harrison’s anger swept away as quickly as it came, leaving only a deflated being with hunched shoulders and bowed head. “A man like Rumlow, he won’t just kill her body…he’ll kill Sharon’s spirit.”

Fury sighed wearily, feeling his age in the hollow of his aching bones. “I’ve put out feelers, no un-mated Alpha with a stronger claim is willing to step forward and challenge Rumlow.”

Harrison eyes are cold as he glares. “Only because no one is willing to go against Alexander Pierce. You know he’s backing Rumlow.”

Fury knows, indeed. Yet, he keeps his voice meticulously rehearsed as he speaks. “Secretary Pierce is an unbiased member of the High Council, as am I.”

It takes everything in Harrison not to roll his eyes like a child. “If you were unbiased you wouldn’t be here.”

Fury sighs. “No, I wouldn’t.”

Looking like the wind had been taken out of his sails, Harrison’s shoulders sag as he turns, walking forlornly to the window. He stands there, silhouetted in sunlight as his eyes rove across his lands.

“Nick,” he murmurs helplessly. “I don’t want to give my little girl to a man like Rumlow.”

Smoothly Fury stands, walking towards Harrison. He stands a pace behind him and reaches out, gripping his shoulder as he gives it a comforting squeeze.

“I won’t let that happen.” he promises.

A weak chuckle works its way through Harrison as he turns his head to regard Fury. “How?”

Fury grimaces as he drops his hand, an idea already having weaseled into his head, refusing to let go even if everything in him doesn’t want to do it.

“I have a plan,” he dourly states. “But you’re not going to like it.”

 

* * *

 

 

The house is dark, just like always.

It’s silent as well, save for the lazy swoosh of the fan above as it spins in slow circles. Outside the faint musical tinkering of a wind chime swaying in the evening breeze can be heard.

Steve Rogers cuts a lonely figure as he lays sprawled across his couch in the same rumpled clothing he had worn the day before (and maybe the day before that). His hair’s grown out and shaggy, more muddy brown than the blonde he had grown up with. Whiskers cover his jaw, way past a five o’clock shadow and now a full-fledged beard that bristles against his skin whenever he absentmindedly scratches his chin.

The Alpha groans when headlights flash through the windows, washing the living room in a ghostly glow. The lights cut out as car doors slam shut. As Steve focuses he can hear the twin steps of two pair of feet marching over gravel and leaves, making their way toward the house.

The noise draws the attention of the massive Akita laying on the wooden floors. He instantly wakes from his slumber, curled tail bobbing to attention as the dog stares at the closed front door. His teeth bare as he growls, awaiting any potential threat.

Steve can’t help but roll his eyes at his dog’s good – if misplaced – intentions.

“Captain,” he tiredly orders, “Desist. It’s just friends.”

The door creaks open and the screen rattles as it bang shut behind two familiar men.

“Jeez!” Sam pretends to gag on air. “What died in here?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Steve mutters as he pulls himself up into a sitting position, groaning as his back pops at the sudden motion. “Hello to you too.”

Sam, as usual, ignores him as he proceeds to the windows, throwing them open to let in the cool night air. The curtains dance as the wind drifts in. It refreshes the room immediately, carrying away the staleness that had been lingering for days (even weeks).

Captain, now over his wariness, bounds up onto his paws, claws clicking as he pads forward to the other man in Steve’s living room.

“Hey, Cap.” Bucky greets with a friendly pat to the head with his good arm. Captain soaks up the attention, tongue hanging out of his mouth as he pants. Even in the darkness, Steve can clearly see the outline of what remains of Bucky’s left arm, only a stump having survived the amputation he had years ago.

Steve’s eye flit away uneasily. He can never stand to look at Bucky’s arm for too long. It always brings back the bitter memories of why Bucky lost his arm in the first place. He bites down on his tongue until the metallic taste of blood fills his mouth.

Bucky – unknowing of his friend’s gnawing guilt – ambles to a side table, tugging the string of a lamp as golden light casts shadows throughout the dim room. Steve blinks wearily at the onslaught of brightness.

Sam wades through the messy room, eyes drawn to the floor where empty beer bottles are scattered carelessly.  

“Just a little nightcap, huh?” he sarcastically asked, eyes unimpressed as they sweep through the disordered chaos that is Steve’s living room. The rest of the house isn’t much better.

In recent years, Steve hasn’t found much use for cleanliness and so the housekeeping has fallen to the wayside. It’s not like it mattered. Steve was the only soul living in this giant house. Other than Captain, of course. Lucky for him, Captain wasn’t a picky sort of dog.

“Not that I’m not happy to see you,” Steve grouches as he sinks back into the giving shape of the couch, ignoring the way his stomach grumbles hungrily. When was the last time he ate anything?

“But what are you doing here so late?” He has no idea what time it is. The grandfather clock in the corner of the room hadn’t rung in a while. But it must be late. Or early. Depending on one’s point of view.

His two second-in-command’s share uneasy glances, having an entire conversation through expressive eyebrow wags and fierce glares. Steve would be impressed if he wasn’t so apathetic to the entire situation unfolding in front of him.

Finally, Bucky seemed the loser of their mental rock-paper-scissors and turned towards Steve with a resigned frown.

“Fury’s sent summons.” he unceremoniously announces. “He wants you in New York.”

He holds up a thick parchment and even from his spot Steve can easily make out the silver wax seal of the High Council.

He glares immediately as his body tenses. He can’t help but ask suspiciously, “What does Fury want?”

“He didn’t say.” Sam tersely chimes in as he crosses his arms, leveling Steve with an unmoved look. “He can do that, you know. Being the Director of the High Council and all.”

Steve’s response is both quick and decisive. “I’m not going.”

“Tough shit, Steve.” Bucky volleys back with a roll of his eyes. “He’s not asking.”

The two Betas are stood shoulder-to-shoulder, a united front against whatever bullshit Steve may pull to get out of meeting with Fury. Steve both loves and hates them. He misses the days when they spent more time bickering with each other than ganging up on him like they’re doing right now.

“I’m not some kind of lap dog,” Steve grumbles as he runs a hair through his disheveled hair. “I don’t come when Master calls.”

He receives two equal looks of irritation.

Nothing bonded Sam and Bucky closer together than their complete frustration over Steve.

“An Alpha cannot refuse the summons of the High Council, particularly when it’s the Director commanding you to come.” Sam slowly explains, as if talking to a particularly dumb child. Steve is almost insulted. But that would take up too much energy, so he remains listless, hardly caring for the conversation or the world around them.

“Steve,” Bucky begins gentler, clearly the good cop in this scenario. “Think of the upside – “

A sardonic snort works its way out of Steve’s mouth as he stares up at his friend, bewilderment clear in his gaze. _“Upside?_ What upside?”

Bucky breathes out heavily through his nose, his patience clearly wearing thin. “It’d be good for you to get out of the house, get out of town for a day or two. Go to New York, spend the night, talk with Fury. Hell, go look at the sights. Bring us back some t-shirts.”

Steve chuckles weakly, looking at his two friends’ imploring expressions. Ah, hell, they know how to wear him down. Tricky wolves.

“Yeah, alright.” he mumbles into his palm as he scrubs at his beard. “But let the record stand, I’m not going to enjoy myself.”

“Hallelujah!” Sam crows triumphantly, arms thrown up in the air. Bucky cracks a grin at the man’s antics. Even Captain gets in on the action, letting out a loud bark of approval from his spot on the floor.

“Unbelievable.” Steve mutters under his breath. “Outnumbered in my own home.”

He scoops up the discarded letter that Bucky had tossed on the coffee table. The words of the summons are aggravatingly vague, much like Fury himself. It makes Steve’s heart sink into his stomach as he ruminates over what Fury could possibly want.

It’s never good when the High Council demands your presence.

And Steve can already bet that he will come to regret his decision.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wahoo! Back at it again with another chapter. Thank you so much for all the love you guys showed the first chapter. I really appreciated all the feedback I received. 
> 
> One thing I really wanted to highlight was the difference between the Carter Pack and the Rogers Pack. The Carter Estate is a home to all pack members who are always welcomed. Very different to Steve's house which is all shuttered up. He doesn't receive many visitors. Due to his grief he is not fostering a closely knit pack. He, in some ways, is failing as the Alpha of his pack. 
> 
> Hopefully everyone is still enjoying the story. I usually write in past tense, so writing in present tense has been a challenge in and of itself. Hopefully I'm not butchering it or making everything clunky. 
> 
> I'd love to hear your guys' feedback for the chapter. Please, please review! It gives me so much motivation. 
> 
> Pic time! 
> 
> Carter Estate:  
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/157032205@N05/28410685437/in/dateposted-public/)
> 
> Sharon's gardening look:  
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/157032205@N05/28410684447/in/dateposted-public/)
> 
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/157032205@N05/28410685277/in/dateposted-public/)
> 
> Harrison's study:  
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/157032205@N05/28410684657/in/dateposted-public/)
> 
> Steve's scruffy look:  
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/157032205@N05/28410685217/in/dateposted-public/)
> 
> Captain:  
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/157032205@N05/28410685497/in/dateposted-public/)


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